You’re the kind of person I wish that’d never age. Forever we’d meet on that worn ol’ bench, me with my iced chai and you with your coffee, black. The likes of us they’d never seen, and for that we’d press our shoulders back with chins slightly up. It’d be you, me, and the sun. Without a plan, or a place to be. We’d sit and we’d sit some more. The rusted bolts, the not yet splintered wood, the passersbys. And after a time we’d go, we’d go, we’d go.
Love, me
Going On 40 